The first blow the prince received was a direct punch to the face—a dry, brutal impact that made stars explode across his vision. Pain shot like lightning through his jaw and sent him crashing onto the polished marble floor of the grand hall of the imperial harem, in the very heart of the palace of Persepolis, jewel of the vast Persian Empire.
It might have seemed ridiculous—a pampered prince, raised among luxuries and concubines, fleeing like a petty thief—but in that instant his mind held only one objective: escape. And he succeeded, at least for the moment, thanks to an innate martial talent running through his blood, a direct inheritance of the Shah’s lineage. He sprang to his feet, blood dripping from his broken nose, and ran. Every step was calculated with the precision of a fleeing leopard.
For the next ten minutes, the prince zigzagged, leapt, and dodged with near-supernatural agility the assassination attempts of his best friend: Ardeshir… now Ariadna.
Ariadna pursued him with eyes bloodshot with rage and pure fury. She shouted curses in ancient Persian while hurling ornamental vases and pieces of furniture that shattered against walls covered in mosaics of lions and mythological griffins. The harem—vast and forbidden to ordinary men—was a labyrinth of opulence and secrets: wide corridors flanked by columns of pink marble brought from Egypt, lit by oil lamps hanging from golden chains, casting dancing shadows that the prince used to vanish and reappear.
He ran through inner gardens with bubbling fountains and pools of thermal water scented with jasmine and sandalwood. The concubines—women of exotic beauty brought from the far reaches of the empire, from the mountains of Bactria to the coasts of Phoenicia—watched him with a mix of curiosity and alarm, interrupted in their routines. Barely dressed in translucent silk panties and bras embroidered with gold thread that enhanced their generous curves, their oiled bodies gleamed under the dim light. Some practiced yoga on woven papyrus mats: a blonde from Thrace in downward dog, stretching long, toned legs; an Egyptian brunette with olive skin in lotus position, softly reciting poetry in ancient Greek about eternal love for the Shah… until the chaos silenced them.
Farther on, in a courtyard shaded by date palms, a group of concubines performed sensual ritual exercises—part of their training to please the sovereign—guided by an older mistress wrapped in a gauze veil. They moved in pairs, practicing hip undulations and erotic twists, their tight panties leaving little to the imagination, while they moaned softly in a hypnotic chorus, simulating acts of intimacy with feather-stuffed cushions.
In his desperate run, the prince collided with one of them—a young Babylonian woman with almond-shaped eyes, whose pearl-adorned bra barely contained her voluptuous breasts. He knocked over an incense burner, and the air filled with aromatic smoke.
“My lord!” she exclaimed, but he had already leapt over a low divan, narrowly dodging a cushion that Ariadna hurled with lethal precision. The pillow struck another girl square in the face—a girl who, in the middle of her practice, had been devotedly licking a giant cucumber.
Ariadna ran behind him, swift as a desert panther. Her slight, almost boyish figure was wrapped in a light white linen tunic, brown trousers, and a white shirt; her short hair framed a furious face. Among the concubines she was known as “the prince’s friend,” and several smiled as she passed, whispering among themselves: “Will she be one of those who hide curves beneath that short haircut… or will hers grow long and wavy like ours?” Others laughed, placing bets on how she would turn out in adolescence as they continued their exercises.
The entire harem seemed to come alive amid the chaos: half-naked girls perfumed with rose oils scattered like exotic birds. Some continued their routines out of sheer inertia—one in deep squats to strengthen her thighs in preparation for sexual dances, another in a yoga twist that accentuated her narrow waist. The eunuch guards, in loose tunics and with impassive faces, were alerted from the shadows, but upon recognizing the “children,” they sheathed their scimitars and merely observed.
“Run, my prince!” some murmured, barely containing their amusement.
Panting but determined, the prince turned into a narrow corridor… and crashed headfirst into Ariadna. They rolled across the floor and ended with her on top of him, pinning him against the cool marble.
“You’re an idiot,” Ariadna hissed, trying to wrap her hands around his neck to strangle him… but she lacked the strength, or perhaps she no longer truly wanted to squeeze.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he growled, still gasping. “Men aren’t supposed to enter the harem!”
The prince stared at her, blinking in confusion, dried blood still marking the corner of his mouth.
“Wait… what?” Ariadna said.
And then, between fury and bewilderment, the two of them lay still for a moment, breathing hard, while around them the harem slowly returned to its sensual, murmuring rhythm, as if nothing had happened.
.
The prince leaned back a little further into the plush embroidered silk cushions, a spoonful of pistachio and honey ice cream already halfway to his mouth. The sweet cold soothed his still-aching jaw from the punch just minutes earlier. Beside him, Ariadna—formerly Ardeshir—poked listlessly at her own bowl of orange ice cream from distant China, stirring the spoon as if she wanted to punish the dessert rather than eat it.
“So…” the prince said, licking the spoon slowly and deliberately, “you weren’t chasing me because I ruined a wish for something more useful to the goddess, right? Then why the hell were you running after me like a madwoman through the entire harem?”
Ariadna lifted her gaze, eyes narrowed, and let out a short snort.
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“It’s just that…” she began, then fell silent. She glanced around, making sure no indiscreet ears were lingering too close.
Right at that moment a group of concubines passed by, wrapped only in sheer panties and embroidered bras, their skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat that made the silk cling as they walked. Every single one smiled when they saw him.
“Hi, Ariadna,” said the first, in a melodic singsong voice.
“Hi, Ariadna,” echoed the second, winking playfully.
“Hiii, Ariadna,” chimed a third, and so on—a dozen times in a row, like a teasing chorus that drifted away down the perfumed corridor, giggling softly.
When the echo of their voices faded, the two of them were alone again among the columns, with jasmine scent drifting lazily in the air.
Ariadna took a deep breath, crossed her arms tightly over her chest, and muttered, almost through clenched teeth:
“I turned into a girl…”
The prince froze, spoon suspended mid-air. He blinked once. Twice.
“No way… Seriously?”
“Yes,” she said, voice taut. “I don’t have…” She dropped her gaze to her own body, arms still crossed like a shield. “…I don’t have it.”
“Seriouslyyy?” The prince leaned forward, eyes sparkling with disbelief and a childish curiosity he didn’t even try to hide. “Let me see.”
“You’re insane!” Ariadna hissed, recoiling back against the cushion as if he might actually pounce on her right there.
“Come on, it’s just that you look exactly the same as when you were a boy…” he insisted, pointing at her with the spoon. “You were this skinny little thing, same sulky puppy face, same cheekbones, same mouth… and yeah, those glasses.”
“I’ve got good eyesight now,” she shot back instantly—and then stopped. She touched the bridge of her nose out of habit, as though expecting to find the frames that were no longer there. “And… better endurance. Speed.” Her eyes drifted for a second, lost in the memory of the chase. “A few minutes ago I ran like I never have before, jumped over divans, dodged vases, slipped past the girls without even thinking twice… it was like the body just knew exactly what to do.”
“So…” the prince said, setting the spoon down in the empty bowl and crossing his arms with an ironic half-smile, “…ignoring the tiny little detail that you’re a girl now…”
Though he was an idiot most of the time, in recent days something else had emerged: those sparks of genius that had always been there, hidden beneath layers of pampering and whims. In the final weeks of the empire, as everything crumbled around them, he had proven to be far more than a spoiled child. He had taken command of the empire without waiting for any formal coronation, organized massive evacuations from the border cities, redistributed grain and gold with a precision that left even the oldest advisors stunned, and even brokered improvised truces with rebel tribes that no one else dared to look in the eye.
The Sha—his father—had looked at him with something close to contempt more than once before falling in battle; perhaps, if he had lived longer, he might have seen him with pride. Now, that same prince—the one who had saved thousands without ever boasting about it—looked at Ariadna with a sudden seriousness that stood in stark contrast to the melting ice cream and the plush cushions around them.
“…how do we keep ourselves from going completely to shit?” he finished, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur.
.
.
In the ancient days of the Great Persian Empire, when the sun sank behind the turquoise-and-gold domes of Persepolis and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon breathed forth scents of rose and sandalwood like a sigh heavy with desire, there existed a secret order of women known as the Trainers of the Shah—in the old tongue, Zanān-e āmūzgār-e Shāh, the Instructors of the King. They were no mere concubines; they were guardians of an arcane art, mistresses of the transformation of mind and flesh, capable of bending even the most untamable souls.
Virgins from the Scythian steppes, with eyes of tempered steel, knelt in supplication, begging for the honor of receiving the Shah's seed. Median amazons, hardened by bow and spear, rode the sovereign with the same fierce grace they tamed their wild stallions. Rebellious princesses from conquered realms spat curses between screams, yet ended by pleading in broken voices that the Shah might deign to look upon them.
Their sole oath was absolute: to deliver to the Shah—whose throne was inlaid with ivory and lapis lazuli, and whose virile member was likened in forbidden chants to the curved lance of Mithra—souls and bodies no longer resistant, but burning, wet, imploring, utterly prepared to be claimed in the royal chamber should they be summoned.
Just as the ancient smiths forged swords in eternal forges of flame, so did they forge indomitable pleasures. Their teaching was ordered according to the age, the strength of spirit, and the resistance of each “wild flower” that arrived at the harem.
In the small tower rising on the fourth level of the harem—a high vantage from which nearly the entire complex could be surveyed—the mistresses gathered. From there they observed: the girls training alone in the lower courtyards, those receiving gentle lessons in perfumed chambers, and the most rebellious ones led to the chambers of harsh methods, where wills were broken only to be rebuilt in ecstasy.
That afternoon, the instructors reviewed the new prospects and recent candidates.
“Roxana Azadi,” said one in a serene voice, turning the pages of a silk scroll. “She is beautiful… hair like fire-red sunset over the Median mountains.”
“Is she not the elder sister of Ariadne?” asked another, raising an eyebrow.
“The prince’s friend,” confirmed a third, with a slow smile.
“Indeed… the prince,” murmured the first, setting the scroll aside. “I believe the time has come to begin the training for the future concubines of the crowned heir.”
“Do you mean we should train Roxana?”
“Why not train both?” proposed an older mistress calmly, crossing her legs, her silver-threaded panties and bra adorned with filigree jewelry glinting softly. “It would be… symmetrical. Elder sister and younger sister, both Azadi.”
“But Ariadne…” interjected another, frowning. “She is too mannish. Too stubborn, too… virile.”
“This is not the first time we have broken one like her,” replied the elder mistress. Her gaze drifted toward a distant corner of the harem visible from the tower.
There walked a European princess captured years before: tall, broad-shouldered, once hard and masculine as a northern warrior. Now she moved with slow, swaying steps, clad only in a black silk thong and a scarlet bra that barely contained her breasts. Two small enchanted devices—vibrating charms—hummed discreetly within her orifices, keeping her in a perpetual state of restrained arousal. No longer did she spit curses; only soft moans escaped as she walked, her eyes glassy with enforced pleasure. She was far from the first such girl they had remade.
The mistresses watched in silence for a moment, satisfied.
“The elder sister, Roxana, is an exceptional archer,” continued the first speaker. “But the younger… a few days ago I saw her racing after the prince through the entire harem. Swift, precise, fearless. I believe she carries the blood of a swordswoman. The Azadi have always bred fine swordsmen… and fine swordswomen.”
All nodded slowly, a tacit agreement hanging in the perfumed air.
“Then it is decided,” said the elder mistress, rolling up the scroll. “We shall begin with the two Azadi sisters. May the heir find in them not merely bodies, but fervent lovers.”
From the tower, the harem spread like a living tapestry of silks, soft moans, and bodies in training. And somewhere in that labyrinth, the sisters still did not know that their fate had just been sealed by a few whispered words among the mistresses.
